


Blame

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters - Friendship, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, General, War of the Ring, Writing - Foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2002-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after Gandalf's fall in Moria. The company struggles with their grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

"On your feet, Sam." 

Aragorn was not rough, but he was not gentle either, as he lifted the weeping hobbit upright. Sam swallowed and looked up at the Ranger, ashamed not of his tears, but of his lack of sense. Strider was right. They couldn't stay here, here so close to the mines, so close to where...Sam bit off the thought with a fierce mental snap. 

The orcs would come after them, as soon as the sunlight slipped away westward. They would come, and they would want revenge. 

Sam rubbed his filthy sleeve across his dirty face, willing his tears to stop. But his eyes leaked as if they had wounds in them, as if the streaming fluid was blood rather than saltwater. 

He scrubbed at his face again, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest, and cleared his vision enough to look around for Frodo. 

At first he could not see him. The brightness of the sun after four days of dim light sent thin daggers of pain into his damp eyes. Merry and Pippin were not far away, being helped up by Legolas and Boromir. Both were weeping just as he was, with a heaving grief that would not release them. Gimli was wailing aloud, and Legolas had a look in his eyes that could shatter the heart. 

"Frodo?" 

Strider's voice. Sam swiveled his head around, saw the Ranger, and followed the man's line of sight, his vision stumbling across the rocky ground in search of his master. 

"Frodo!" 

Louder this time, insistent. Frodo, who had been walking eastward, away from them, paused. Slowly, his head swiveling first, and then his body following reluctantly, Frodo turned and looked back at Aragorn. 

Sam caught his breath, feeling a new and sharper shiver of pain lance through his chest cavity. Even at this distance, he could see Frodo's face clearly. The shimmering tracks of tears bedded in the caked grime of his cheeks, the luminescence of his eyes, ice blue in the startling midday sunlight; the trembling grief of his lips. 

Sam longed to run to him, to comfort him somehow, but he stood rooted to the stone by his own unbearable grief, and by the fear that any contact at all would shatter Frodo into pieces. 

"Frodo," Aragorn said, more softly now, more gently. "Please. Come here." 

Frodo stood still for a moment, looking at the Ranger with an unreadable expression on his face, then turned back and came towards them, casting his eyes towards the rocky ground and making no effort to wipe the dripping tears from his chin. Reluctance was in every line of his body, and it seemed that hours passed before he joined the circle of companions, standing like a ruined wall on the bare hill. 

Strider looked at each one of them in turn. Only Pippin still made any sound. He was shaking with uncontrollable sobs, enfolded in Merry's arms, who seemed to be holding the younger hobbit upright. Merry stood firm, jaw set, unshed grief brimming in his eyes. Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, Sam. They seemed under control for the moment. 

"We must move on," he said firmly, "We must obey his last command. Lothlorien is our only hope of escaping these orcs, who will surely come after us as soon as the sun sets. Boromir, can you carry Master Peregrin, until he is ready to bear himself? I must scout ahead a bit, to be sure our way is clear, and I need Legolas to keep an arrow on the string until we are far from these hills." 

Boromir nodded. 

Aragorn bent to the other Hobbits. "Can you run? We shall bear you a while if you cannot, and there is no shame in it." 

Merry and Sam nodded. Frodo said nothing, but tightened the straps on his pack. Boromir lifted Pippin, who was still shaking and resisted not at all. 

Aragorn turned towards the Moria gate, and lifting up his sword he cried, "Farewell, Gandalf! What hope have we without you?" 

"Alas," he said, sheathing his sword again and turning towards the company, "we must do without hope." And he led the company at a trot towards the east and south. 

******* 

TBC 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Gandalf's fall in Moria. The company struggles with their grief.

They halted after about two hours of steady running, and Frodo and Sam were the last ones of the company. Frodo had lagged far behind the rest, gasping with hitching breaths, and Sam had paced himself to match. Neither had spoken a word of complaint, but Aragorn took one look at Frodo as he stumbled into the clearing, and ran to him. 

“Oh, Frodo, I am so sorry,” he said. “In our grief and haste I had forgotten that you were hurt. And you are not the only one who needs tending, though I’ll wager you are most injured.” 

He made Frodo sit down, and sent Sam to fetch clean water from the nearby stream, instructing him to set it to boil. Gingerly Strider peeled the clothing and mail from the hobbit’s slim body, and despite his gentleness Frodo’s sharp intakes of breath betrayed his pain. 

“Oh Frodo, Frodo, why did you not speak up?” Aragorn rebuked him softly, “There is much I can do to ease you.” 

Frodo gritted his teeth, refusing to meet the Ranger’s gentle gaze, and did not answer. But he allowed himself to be laid onto his back, and responded like a puppet as Strider lifted each arm to examine the hobbit’s ribcage. 

Frodo’s right side was blackened and bruised from armpit to waist, and there were a few places where the rings of the dwarf-mail had driven through leather and into flesh. These areas were crusted with dried blood. Frodo’s left side was also bruised, and when Aragorn pressed gently against the hobbit’s sides, he cried out. 

“A couple of broken ribs, no doubt,” said Strider seriously. “But none have pierced the skin, so they should mend well and quickly.” He took the hot water from Sam, who had returned, and broke several dried athelas leaves into the pot. The smell of them immediately filled the little dell, and the entire company breathed deeply of the healing scent. 

Strider bathed Frodo’s chest and sides with the warm water, and soon the hobbit’s breathing eased, and the pain left him. Despite himself, Frodo’s features relaxed. 

Strider then took some soft cloths, and tearing them into long strips, wound them about Frodo’s middle until he was well padded. Then he helped him put on again his leather shirt and the mithril mail, and bade him lie quietly while some food was prepared. 

Sam watched the ministrations with anxiety. Even when he was sure of Frodo’s physical well being, he could not shake the sensation that something was seriously wrong with his master. Frodo seemed separated from himself somehow – detached in a way he had not been since they had begun this journey. 

Could it be simple grief? Sam considered it. They were all practically crippled with the grief of losing Gandalf. All but Legolas had wept, and even the elf wore a countenance of disbelief and profound sorrow. 

No, it was more than grief. 

Sam stretched himself out upon the ground next to Frodo and put his arms behind his head. They were a little apart from the others, Strider having come to meet them as they entered the clearing, and Sam felt safe enough to venture a whispered question, although he was not sure that his master would feel safe enough to answer. 

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam paused, breathing in the lingering scent of athelas. “Are you alright?” 

For several shuddering moments, Frodo said nothing. Sam waited, understanding that he might get nothing from the older hobbit, and accepting it, having learned long ago from his Gaffer not to overstep his bounds. But then suddenly Frodo did speak, and it was not at all what Sam had expected. 

“It’s my fault, you know.” 

The words were so quiet, like a whisper or a prayer. Sam would have believed they had siphoned off the breeze if Frodo had not breathed deeply and repeated the words. 

“It’s my fault.” 

Sam rolled onto his side, propping himself onto his left elbow, his back to the company and his face towards his friend. Silent tears ran from Frodo’s eyes, down the side of his face, staining the brown blanket beneath him. 

Sam was alarmed, but he held his tongue, resisting the urge to exclaim his disagreement. Instead he spoke softly, “What’s your fault, Mr. Frodo?” 

Frodo hitched in a shallow breath, and turned his head slightly away from the younger hobbit. “Gandalf. It’s my fault we lost him. It’s my fault he’s…” 

Breaking off, Frodo brought his hands up and pressed them against his eyes, struggling for control. “It’s my fault he’s dead, Sam. And I can’t bear it.” 

Sam swallowed a few times, unsure of what to say. Although he disagreed with Frodo, he knew his master well enough not to argue with him. 

“What makes you say that, Sir?” he asked instead, quietly. 

Frodo’s hands fell away from his face, and for the first time since they had come out of Moria, he looked at Sam. His eyes were startlingly bright, bluer than sky or water, and shimmering with liquid grief. 

“I made the decision, Sam. Going through Moria was my decision.” 

Sam’s mind stumbled back to Caradhras. Almost buried in snow, without fire or shelter, all the fury of Saruman and the mountain flung at them from above… 

\---------“Let the Ringbearer decide.” 

Sam looked at Frodo, compassion welling from his eyes and heart as he suddenly understood the pain his friend had been embracing. 

\---------“We will go through the mines.” 

“Oh, Mr. Frodo,” he said in a trembling whisper, “Don’t blame yourself. You ‘ad no way of knowin’ such a monster existed, and if you had, you mighta made a different decision. How could you have known?” He reached his right hand out towards his master, but did not touch him, laying it instead near the other hobbit’s shoulder. “Besides,” he thought indignantly to himself, “Gandalf had no business layin’ the decision on Frodo in the first place, Ringbearer or no.” 

“Perhaps,” Frodo said in a helpless whisper, pulling his eyes from Sam’s face, unable to bear the sorrow in the deep hazel eyes of his closest friend. “Perhaps, and perhaps not. There seemed to be no other way to go.” He trailed off, but his tears continued to flow unabated. 

\---------“So be it.” 

Sam lowered his propped upper body to the ground, remaining on his side, and watched Frodo’s profile through his own tears. He was silent for several moments, but soon his troubled thoughts tumbled out on their own. 

“Now listen here, Mr. Frodo,” he said, gently but insistently, “You ain’t no wizard, and you can’t see the future. You had a hard choice put to you, and in a pinch besides, and you made the best decision you knew to make, and there’s no saying it were a bad decision, neither. We don’t know what mighta happened had we chosen to continue in the snow, or headed fer Rohan, or turned back to Rivendell even. T’ain’t anyone who blames you, and if you don’t mind my saying so, I doubt Mr. Gandalf himself would blame you were he here to be asked.” 

Sam fell silent. 

Frodo took several shallow breaths, seeming to turn the words over in his mind. Then gingerly, he rolled to his right side, facing the younger hobbit. He brought his hand up, slowly, and slipped it beneath Sam’s, which still lay near him. Sam folded his strong fingers around his friend’s and waited. He could hear the hushed voices of Merry and Pippin punctuated with sniffles, the clinking of cookware as Gimli made a meal, Aragorn’s low voice as he spoke to Boromir and Legolas. None of it seemed important. 

“Perhaps you are right, Sam.” Frodo breathed at last, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against their clasped hands in a gesture of profound weariness. “I don’t know of any other way we could have gone…” 

Sam squeezed his master’s hand gently, and wished, not for the first time, that he could somehow share his pain, could somehow bear more of the burden, even as he did with their packs. 

Not for the first time. 

Not for the last time. 

******* 

~TBC~ 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Gandalf's fall in Moria. The company struggles with their grief.

Aragorn did not let them rest for more than an hour or so, then he insisted that they move on. The sun was westering, and they still had several hours swift walk to the edge of the Lothlorien woods. 

Groaning, the hobbits stood and reshouldered their packs. All except Frodo, whose pack was taken from him by Strider. 

“I’ll not have you carrying that until those ribs have a chance to begin knitting. No, Frodo, don’t argue with me. I can carry it well enough for a bit, and if I don’t do it, then Sam will try to.” 

Sam smiled just a little despite himself. It was true. He was the one who had spoken quietly to the Ranger when Frodo was getting a drink from the stream, and sure as he would carry both packs if his master could get ease no other way. 

Frodo looked suspiciously at Sam, but sighed and gave in. The truth was he welcomed the reprieve. In his effort to punish himself, he had embraced his pain, both the physical and the emotional, all the way from Moria, and he was not sure that he could bear the weight of the pack even for one afternoon. 

They started off at Strider’s brisk pace, the hobbits at a trot near the back of the company, and Legolas bringing up the rear. The elf paused occasionally and cast his bright eyes backwards, towards the north and west, then always catching back up effortlessly. He saw no sign of pursuit. 

Aragorn led them on for nearly three more hours, pausing only once, and that briefly, for night had fallen. The hobbits said very little during this leg of their journey, partly because they were moving at a pace that prevented casual conversation, and partly because grief still clogged their throats with sorrow like sour milk. Their tears had stopped, for now, but their hearts still sobbed within them. 

At last they reached a great forest, and the night-wind blew chill up the valley to meet them, rustling the leaves of many trees. 

“Lothlorien!” cried Legolas, “We have come to the eaves of the Golden Wood. Alas that it is winter.” 

“Lothlorien,” answered Aragorn, “Glad I am to hear again the wind in the trees! We are still little more than five leagues from the Gates, but we can go no further. Let us go forward a short way, until the trees are all around us, then we will turn aside from the path and seek a place to rest in.” 

They moved quietly under the gray trees, perhaps a mile or so, then came to the Nimrodel. Crossing the fair stream, they found a level place, and made camp. 

It was Sam and Merry’s turn to prepare the small meal, and while they were at it, the others spread out blankets and sat or lay upon the chilly earth. All but Legolas, who stood listening to the voice of the water and keeping watch. 

Frodo lay down and rolled himself into a blanket. He did not sleep just yet – his ribs were stiff and aching – but it felt good to be off his feet, and the wade through the Nimrodel had been very refreshing. 

Pippin was restless. He wandered about the perimeter of the camp, wanting to talk yet not wanting to, feeling drained in body and torn in spirit. His stomach was pinched with hunger, but he did not offer to help Sam and Merry with the supper, for there was no room for more than two over the tiny campfire, and Pippin could hear them, speaking softly about the virtues of herbs in cooking. 

“How can they do that?” Pippin asked himself seriously. “How can they sit and speak of Bay leaves and such when we’ve just come from…” He caught himself midthought and shook his head violently, to clear his mind. 

No, Pippin did not want to talk. He wanted to be alone. 

The hobbit wandered towards the water. Perhaps he would sit awhile and dabble his feet in the cool stream, and think. Or, even better, perhaps he could find a way to escape his thoughts. 

He found a perfect spot, behind a tumble of rock, near enough to the company to hear a call or to give one, but out of sight of the compassionate eyes of the others. Pippin lowered himself to the leafy ground and dropped his tired feet noiselessly into the Nimrodel. 

\-------“Fool of a Took!” 

Pippin flinched. His mind had been ringing with that rebuke for hours. Clear and cold as audible words it was, keening against his heart like bitter winter wind. He was not sure how much longer he could bear the torment. 

\--------“Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!” 

Pippin whimpered, digging his fingers into the damp earth beside his thighs and struggling to turn his mind in another direction. He pushed his thoughts towards home, towards Tookburough, striving in vain to think of pipeweed, of food and fire, of his mother’s face… 

\-------“Foolish boy! How can you expect to be Thain one day with no more 

\-------sense in your head than a speckled toad!” 

His father’s voice now. Echoing halfway across middle-earth like a dark arrow from a bow. It struck him hot and deep and filled his heart with black despair like orc poison. 

Pippin bent double, pressed his face to his knees, and wept. 

******* 

~TBC~ 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Gandalf's fall in Moria. The company struggles with their grief.

Legolas stood still as stone, listening intently. He could hear many things, some of which could not be heard by the others of the company. 

The voice of the Nimrodel, music to his soul. 

The keen movement of the wind through the silver trees. 

The scratchy, snuffly sounds of small animals deep in the forest and beneath the cool earth. 

The clinking of tin against tin over the crackling flames as two of the hobbits prepared food. 

The creaking of leather from one side of the clearing as Boromir turned restlessly. 

Gimli, sharpening his axe with a small stone that he carried for that purpose. 

Frodo’s soft regular breaths and Aragorn’s uneven ones – both asleep for the present. 

And Pippin. 

Legolas could hear him, too, sobbing his heart out behind the rocks. Weeping as if his small soul was ruined within him. 

Pippin dug his fingers deeper into the damp soil, clutching the earth as if it could somehow restore him to self-control. 

\----------“Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!” 

He pressed his face against his knees in an attempt to muffle the choked sounds of his grief. Waves of pain rippled through his chest, and the hobbit could not remember feeling such guilt in his life, despite the fact that he was well acquainted with the emotion. 

\-----------“One son I have. Only one. And he as thoughtless and foolish a Took to ever be born within these walls! Leave my sight, boy, before I flail your hide off ye!” 

Suddenly Pippin’s small body was overwhelmed, and almost before he could part his knees, he vomited into the cool stream. 

It wasn’t much, just some stew and bread they had eaten three hours before at the last real halt. But his body rejected it, and after his stomach was emptied, Pippin’s body continued to convulse, dry heaving for several moments after the Nimrodel had washed away his small offering. 

Breathing hard, Pippin extracted his fingers from the soil and dropped them into the clear water between his calves. The forgiving stream sluiced away mud and leaves, and soon his hands were clean enough to splash his hot face and to rinse the acrid taste of bile from his mouth. 

When he felt able, Pippin sat back against the rock. Tears continued to flow unabated from his swollen eyes, but the sobbing had been eased for the moment by his vomiting. 

“Master Peregrin?” A soft voice, full of gentleness, spoken near at hand. 

Pippin looked up, startled, and saw Legolas standing nigh, his face filled with the same unspeakable sorrow he had worn for most of this long, long day. 

The hobbit made no answer, ashamed of his lack of composure in the presence of one so strong and sure. When Legolas asked his leave to sit beside him, Pippin nodded dumbly, then looked down, fixing his eyes on the curled dampness of his own hands in his lap. 

The elf sat down, cross-legged on the leaves; close enough to touch the hobbit, but not doing so. He had never spoken alone with Pippin. The young hobbit seemed a little in awe of him, of elves in general, and had bonded more with Boromir. But Legolas felt compelled, somehow, to ease the little one’s sorrow, for he understood its cause. 

“You blame yourself.” 

The phrase was not an accusation, nor a rebuke. It was simply a statement, issued from the dimness beside him, but Pippin reacted as if he had been struck. 

“And who else should be blamed?” he spat bitterly, turning towards the elf with defiant misery in his eyes. “It was me that brought the orcs. Me! And we were so close to the gates. We could have made it out, all of us. We would have made it out…” 

He broke off, stumbling back into sobs and bringing his small hands to his face. 

\-------“Fool of a Took!” 

Again his body rocked with dry heaving, waves of fruitless nausea that threatened to tip his small body into the water. 

Legolas laid a gentle hand upon the hobbit’s back, steadying him until he grew still, then he spoke, cautiously. 

“I am an elf,” he said softly, pausing to allow the hobbit the opportunity to sit up, “and therefore death is somewhat of a mystery to me. Even more so the ways and fortunes of wizards, who are more than we. But this I do know – that seldom are happenings small or great the result of one choice, or of one being – rather they are a culmination of many choices and of many events.” 

Pippin looked at him silently, chewing on the idea but unwilling to swallow. 

“We are a Fellowship,” the elf continued, “each of our actions bound to the other’s. I accept some of the blame for Gandalf’s loss upon myself, as well.” 

The hobbit’s green eyes widened at this, and he found himself speaking. “You? But you did nothing…I was the one who threw the stone into the well. I alerted the orcs to us. And the…the other.” His face screwed into pain, and he stopped speaking. 

“Yes,” said Legolas, gazing past the hobbit into the gray wood. “I did nothing. And that is why I accept some blame. I did not go back to stand by Gandalf upon the bridge. I know more of Balrogs than any other of the company, save Gandalf himself, yet I did not fight. I ran.” He turned his fathomless eyes upon Pippin again. “I was afraid.” 

Pippin was dumbstruck. His small mouth stood open in a hollow bow, and he looked at the elf with mute astonishment. 

“Gimli also feels the weight of blame,” Legolas continued, thoughtfully, “for it was his desire to go through Moria from the beginning. And it was his people who stirred up the evil beneath the mountains. Gimli it was who halted first at the chamber of Mazarbul. His people wrote the book which caused us to pause in that place, giving you time to disturb the well.” 

The elf sighed, dipping his chin and allowing the gold of his hair to fall forward from his shoulders. 

“Each of us must bear our own burdens. But you lay one far too heavy upon yourself, little one. You are only one among many imperfect beings, and although your grief is true, this weight of blame is too great for you to bear alone.” Legolas leaned forward, laying both hands upon the shoulders of the youngest hobbit, and speaking earnestly, as if his words were droplets of water upon parched ground. 

“You are not to blame, Peregrin Took, for you did not create the evil of the Balrog. And you did not create the evil of the One Ring. It is not because of you that we journey towards the Darkness, and although you have a part to play in this destiny, the outcome is not laid upon your shoulders.” 

The elf brought his hands softly to either side of the hobbit’s face. “Be at peace, little one. Grieve, but do not blame yourself. None know yet what will come to pass, and I would not see your spirit fail before the end.” 

Pippin was still for a moment, cautiously embracing this thought. Then he pulled back, leaning his head against the cool stone. With a sigh, his eyes fell closed, and another memory came into his mind. 

\---------“Ah, look at him, Eglantine! Isn’t he the finest lad you’ve ever seen? He will make a great Thain one day, mark my words!” 

Pippin began to weep again, but this time the clutching sorrow did not come, and the tears began to wash the fear from his small brave heart. 

******* 

~TBC~ 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Gandalf's fall in Moria. The company struggles with their grief.

Despite their weariness, the company did not sleep after their meal. They sat huddled around the small fire, and Legolas told them tales of Lothlorien that the elves of Mirkwood still kept in their hearts, of sunlight and starlight upon the meadows by the Great River before the world was gray. 

After a time, while Legolas was still speaking, Aragorn rose and went to the edge of the clearing. The others, used to the Ranger’s restlessness and watchfulness, barely took notice, but both Sam and Merry watched him as he moved out of the circle of firelight. 

Aragorn paced to and fro a bit, listening intently for any unusual sounds in the woods, especially towards the West. He heard nothing of pursuit, but the woods seemed to be poised, listening just as he was. He sighed heavily, shrugging his cloak more tightly around himself, as the night was cool. 

“Strider?” 

Startled, the Ranger turned, and found Merry standing nigh, his blanket wrapped around his small shoulders, his face already robbed of innocence by the harshness of the quest. 

“Merry. What is it?” 

The hobbit came a pace or two forward, looking up at Aragorn with a question in his eyes, but not the one he spoke first. “Do you think it’s safe to have a smoke? I mean, I sure could use one, but perhaps the scent of it would put us into danger. All of us, the hobbits I mean, feel more at ease after a pipe full, but we we’ve learned well enough not to take unnecessary risks.” 

With this the hobbit dropped his gaze, and seemed to be studying the tangled fur on his feet. Strider felt the urge to smile, but he didn’t, sensing that Merry had more on his mind than smoking. 

“Best not to smoke tonight, Merry,” he said in answer, “If we find favor with the elves of this realm, we will have smoking and feasting and rest in plenty, but I still fear that the orcs will come tonight, and soon we must seek a better shelter than this clearing, and put out even our small campfire.” 

“Aye,” said Merry, his face still hidden from the Ranger, “Sam thought as much, too, but I thought I would ask.” 

Although his question had been answered, Merry did not go back to the fire, and Aragorn was keenly aware that the hobbit was gathering his courage for another question, the one that had been pressing behind his eyes when he first approached him. He wondered what it could be, and worried as well, for he did not trust himself to answer wisely or with compassion. 

Grief lay heavy upon Aragorn. Grief, and sorrow, and doubt. He was the leader now, for good or for ill, and he felt unprepared for such a burden. 

\----“Lead them on Aragorn!” 

Even if Gandalf had not said them, the words that burned now against his mind, Aragorn would still have felt the heavy mantle of leadership fall upon his shoulders – too soon, too soon. He was not ready. And Boromir? Though he said nothing, was he feeling the chafing of Aragorn’s position at the head of the company? 

And over all of it, the grief. Heartrending, despairing sorrow that almost robbed him of hope. Mithrandir was not just a friend – he was a light in a growing darkness, and his importance could not be guessed by most of the company… 

He pulled his thoughts together abruptly. Merry was still standing there, head downward, not speaking. How long had he been there? Aragorn sighed, and sank down to the ground, his back against a tree, stretching his legs out in front of him before turning and looking at the hobbit. 

“Merry. You’ve more on your mind than pipeweed.” 

Merry looked up, and doubt shone clear in his eyes like tears, despite the darkness of the wood. 

“Strider?” he began, speaking slowly and gathering his courage with each word, “That great monster, at the gates, the one that grabbed hold of Frodo and nearly ate him?” 

“The Watcher,” said Strider, watching Merry’s face, “so Gandalf called it, our second night in Moria when we were resting and speaking of it.” 

“Aye. The Watcher.” Merry paused, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and furrowing his brow. “Strider, do you think… Well, if the Watcher hadn’t come – after we found the mines were full of dead dwarves – would we have turned back? What I mean to ask is – if the Watcher had not chased us back through the gate, and torn down the walls, and blocked us in, we would have made for Rohan. Wouldn’t we?” 

Aragorn looked at Merry with puzzlement staining his features. “Likely, yes, if we could have avoided the wolves, but the Watcher did come, Meriadoc, and we had no other choice.” 

Merry sighed heavily. He sat down next to Aragorn, stretching his short legs out alongside the Ranger’s longer ones. For a moment they were both silent, and they could hear the melodic murmur of Legolas’ voice, telling yet another tale to lighten the heavy hearts of the company. 

“I made him come.” Merry said at last, quietly. “I made the Watcher come.” 

Aragorn started to reply, but Merry’s words tumbled out. “I should have had more sense, Strider. Tossing stones into the pool as if I was back in Bywater on a picnic. You stopped Pippin, but I had three good throws in before you told us what we should have had the sense to know.” 

\----“Do not disturb the water!” 

“I know Pippin feels like it’s all his fault, tossing that stone in the well and such,” Merry continued, “but if I had had more sense, we would have never gone through the mines at all. And there wouldna been a well to toss stones into, and maybe…maybe Gandalf would still be with us” the hobbit trailed off at last, bringing his dirty hands up to rub at his eyes. 

“Merry, “ Aragorn said, his head shaking involuntarily from side to side, “this is not your fault!” The Ranger was amazed. “Pippin’s stone into the well had more to do with it than yours at the gate, and…” 

Merry jumped to his feet, turning towards Strider with an expression that rapidly transformed from sorrow to indignation. “Pip didn’t mean any harm! He’s had enough guilt and grief over this already, so don’t downtalk him!” his tone was fierce with love for his younger cousin, and fresh tears started in his hazel eyes. 

“Merry.” Aragorn gripped the hobbit’s arms, speaking gently. “Please. Hear me. What I mean to say is that there were many things leading up to…to Gandalf’s fall. You cannot place the blame fully on yourself, and… Meriadoc, you cannot take the blame completely off any other.” He paused, searching Merry’s face for a moment before continuing. 

“Throwing the stone in the pool at the gate was unwise. I will not say that it was not so. But you seek to lift the guilt from one you love by placing it upon yourself. Do you truly think you can succeed?” He shook the hobbit gently, and Merry was surprised to see, through his own, tears in the eyes of the Ranger. 

“Fate has brought us to this place, for good or for evil,” the man continued, “and we must strengthen ourselves to move on to where fate would take us now.” 

He sighed, and his hands slipped from Merry to the cool earth, followed by his gaze. “I wish I knew where to tell you to find strength.” 

Merry looked at him. He had not known Strider long, but already he felt a bond to the man, much as he did towards Boromir, and both bonds surprised him. He had never had anything to do with “big people” before, and certainly never figured on being friends with any. 

The hobbit gathered his blanket and turned to go back to the fire, sensing the Ranger’s need for solitude. But before he had gone more than a few paces, he paused, and spoke again. 

“Strider?” 

“Yes, Merry.” 

“It’s not your fault either.” 


End file.
